Dear Readers,
Let me start by saying that what you’re about to read is 100% true. Every bruise, every gash, every ounce of my lost dignity … all happened.
It started with what I thought was a brilliant idea. I figured I could rope a deer, put it in a stall, fatten it up on corn for a few weeks, then have myself some prime venison. Simple plan, right?
Step one: Catch a deer.
Now, I’ve seen deer up close plenty of times. They gather around my cattle feeder like they own the place, sometimes coming right up to sniff the feed bags while I stand there, not even four feet away. How hard could it be to rope one?
So, I set my trap. I filled the cattle feeder, hid at the end with my lasso, and waited. The cows, having witnessed my roping skills before, wisely kept their distance. They weren’t falling for it. But then, three deer appeared.
I picked my target — a nice, healthy-looking one — and stepped out, swinging my rope like a seasoned cowboy. The deer just stood there, staring at me with mild curiosity. No fear. No panic. Just … staring.
I looped the rope around my waist for a firm grip, gave it a little tug, and learned a very valuable life lesson:
A deer that is calmly standing still while you lasso it, will not remain calm once you start pulling on the rope.
That deer EXPLODED.
And by “exploded,” I mean it went from zero to Mach 3 in half a second, dragging me with it. Now, I’ve roped cows before. I’ve roped colts. But let me tell you — pound for pound, a deer is stronger than both. I had NO chance.
I was airborne.
It bucked, twisted, yanked, and flung me around like I was an unwanted scarf. My brilliant plan had taken a sharp left turn into chaos. My dignity evaporated as I realized that being tied to a wild, panic-stricken deer was not the strategic advantage I had hoped for.
For the next ten minutes, that deer gave me the beating of a lifetime. It dragged me across the ground, using my body to personally inspect every rock, stick, and thorn in the pasture.
At one point, I briefly blacked out — either from the gash on my head or sheer humiliation, I’m not sure.
By the time the deer started to tire, I had lost all desire for corn-fed venison. I just wanted the nightmare to end.
Now, here’s the moral dilemma. If I let the deer go with the rope still around its neck, it might die a slow, painful death somewhere. And as much as I loathed this devil creature in that moment, I wasn’t that heartless. I decided to get my rope back.
This was Mistake #2.
I carefully guided the deer into a makeshift trap between my truck and the feeder. It was wedged in there just enough for me to sneak up and grab the rope.
Did you know that deer bite?
Because I sure didn’t.
The moment I reached for the rope, that demonic Bambi latched onto my wrist like a rabid pit bull. Now, I’ve been bitten by horses before. They bite and let go. But not deer. Oh no. Deer bite and SHAKE. Like a dog with a chew toy.
I, being a rational man of logic and experience, responded by screaming at the top of my lungs and flailing like an inflatable tube man at a used car lot. My method was ineffective.
Realizing I was about to lose a chunk of my arm, I devised a genius plan: I used my free hand to untie the rope.
This was Mistake #3.
The moment that rope came loose, the deer reared up on its hind legs and started boxing me. That’s right — deer don’t just run. They fight.
With razor-sharp hooves at head level, I had two choices:
Stand my ground like a man and fight back.
Scream like a little girl and run.
I chose Option 2.
As I turned to flee, the deer delivered a well-aimed hoof to the back of my skull, knocking me flat. And because deer are nothing if not thorough, it proceeded to stomp on me repeatedly just to make sure I got the message.
Eventually, I managed to crawl under my truck, where I lay in the dirt, battered, bitten, and questioned all my life choices.
The deer, satisfied with its victory, strutted off into the woods.
So, my dear readers, if you ever get the bright idea to rope a deer, let me save you the trouble: Don’t.
And if you’re still tempted, bring a rifle. Or better, just go to the grocery store like a normal person.
Sincerely,
A Much Wiser Farmer